


Flavours: Piquant

by amorremanet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consent Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Manipulation, POV First Person, Purple Prose, Sexual Abuse, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unreliable Narrator, and subsequently denying all culpability for how that person reacts to your abuse, look: it's basically 'What if Lolita with Slughorn and Tom Riddle' okay, overly flowery account of sexually manipulating & abusing a child/teen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-31
Updated: 2007-01-31
Packaged: 2020-05-13 01:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: “Tom Marvolo Riddle was an uncommon boy; I noticed it immediately.”Horace Slughorn always had a special fondness for Tom Riddle, but his influence can’t have had any effects on the boy or what became of him. Desperately justifying his own actions, Slughorn needs to believe that he played no significant role in creating Lord Voldemort.





	Flavours: Piquant

**Author's Note:**

> This ~~series~~ fic was inspired by [](http://5trueloves.livejournal.com/profile)[**5trueloves**](http://5trueloves.livejournal.com/) , but is entirely unaffiliated with it. Many thanks to [](http://vikingcarrot.livejournal.com/profile)[**vikingcarrot**](http://vikingcarrot.livejournal.com/) for the beta! :D
> 
>  **16th June, 2019:** Originally posted [**here on LJ**](https://duanya-lesfics.livejournal.com/32536.html). This fic has been edited slightly, mostly to fix a few places where I needed em-dashes and to add some paragraph breaks because I seriously underestimated how important they were, when I was seventeen.
> 
> In case the tags—especially the one reading, “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat”—and the comparisons to Vladimir Nabokov’s novel about the sexual abuse and rape of a teenage girl aren’t enough indication for y’all, **I, the author, absolutely in no way condone any of what happens in this fic or any of what the POV character says, does, etc. I think child abuse is absolutely heinous and I don’t wish it on anybody, ever. Writing from Slughorn’s POV for this fic doesn’t mean that I agree with him, point blank, period.**

Tom Marvolo Riddle was an uncommon boy; I noticed it immediately. By the time he graced my common room and classroom with his beautiful, black hair and all eleven of his years, I had already been a professor for longer than he’d been alive. Still, he stood out amongst all the students I had taught.

Everyone noticed that he was, perhaps, the shortest sorting in all of Hogwarts’ illustrious history. Was there time between Albus placing that filthy, ancient old hat on his head, or do I simply insert its presence to fulfill some desire so surreptitious, so subdued beneath the layers of my age that even I cannot fathom what it could be? Unfortunately for this narrative, I do not know. It seems as though there was no time between his sitting on the stool and his sitting at the Slytherin table—logically, there had to be, and for more than him walking there—but I have been known to fool myself on occasion. Regardless, he was and, to my knowledge, continues to be the shortest sorting in the history of this school, but that was hardly the only uncommon thing about him.  
  
No, no, no, everything about the boy was so singularly exotic, so exceptionally distinctive, so unprecedented in all my forty-five years, sixteen of which I had spent instructing young people in the fine art of potion-making, that it was maddening, just to be around him. There had been others before him—other delightful boys with brains and beautiful eyes—but there had been none exactly like him, and there have been none exactly like him since. I have not hoped for a single one of my many conquests to repeat the experience of Tom Riddle, and I have not made the story of our seven years together known to anyone else beforehand.

There is, of course, the reason that makes itself all too obvious to those who know how Tom turned out. Killing people, ripping families apart, wreaking havoc amongst the Muggles, parceling off his soul with the knowledge of Dark Arts that I gave to him willingly—certainly, were you in my delicate situation, you’d not reveal the extent of your involvement either. People would take things too far, arch their eyebrows and start asking questions that they have no business asking.   
  
On a more ethereal level, I could not hope, in good conscience, for anyone to match what that boy did to me. Even if they aspired to it, devoted themselves to achieving it, and exhausted every last particle of their beings attempting to please me by chasing that astral ephemeron, they would still fall horribly short. Aside from proving to be all in vain, their striving exertions to capture that essence would rob me of fully experiencing them as they are, and that is all I desire from them.

Tom, at his most basic, was intoxicating and provocative. Everything from his most noticeable features—those deep, musing eyes; his fairytale forest of black hair; his pale, Golden Age Adonis beauty—to his intricacies—the precise, cautious construction of his cheekbones; his pleading, gossamer purr; the dreamy way he fingered his lower lip while lost in thought—… everything was overwhelming. I must confess that, though it took some time, I lost myself in that boy and all he was.  
  
From our very first meeting, I knew that Tom and I would be inseparable, close in the way that I reserve specially for my favorite conquests. It was truly quite innocent, especially for me. As all new years open, I met my new crop of first years in the Slytherin common room, and, perhaps, that year, I’d had a sherry too many at the welcoming feast. There were ten of them: four girls—perfect, pureblood darlings, the lot of them, not that this matters, mind you, but it mattered far more in 1938 than it does now; different times, you understand—and six boys.

The number of boys worked to Tom’s advantage but, then again, most things did in those days. Where his five fellows—Lestrange, Nott, Rosier, Dolohov, and Mulciber—were  _enfants terribles_ , raised in old, pureblood money with old, pureblood ideals, thinking they owned the world (a delusion they never fully outgrew until they entered into his service), Tom had a certain class about him. He wasted no time with the trifles of eleven-year-old boys, choosing instead his books, and learning everything he could about our world.  
  
After I welcomed these angels, scamps, and Tom to Hogwarts, nine of them dispersed; Tom approached me. This came as no surprise to me, as I enjoy believing that I project myself as benevolent, or cordial at the very least. While the nine children he’d have singing his praises in two short weeks meandered off to their respective dormitories, he came to me, dark eyes innocuous and drooping slightly with a craving for sleep. He looked me in the eye—a prodigious achievement, one that not one of my first years had yet matched—smiled like a smirking mask, and said in a soft, docile voice:  
  
“Thank you, sir.”  
  
He did not introduce himself, there was no need: already, if only because of the sorting, I knew his name. The other boys were free to be confused and muddled up in my brain; their money could only take them so far. Tom made himself memorable.  
  
I had him in my class for the first time that Friday, during the standard, but never understood, double Potions of Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Keep in mind that, when I say that this arrangement was never understood, I mean simply that I myself could never comprehend why in the name of Merlin anyone would put two houses with a famous loathing of each other in the same room with only a professor keeping them from each other’s throats. I’m sure that, at some point or another, I have had it explained to me, but I remain barred from discerning the logic of the circumstances. Perhaps, someone might have petitioned for a change, citing the obvious distractions inherent in placing children indoctrinated into hating each other in the same room for hours at a time.

(That is one major failing of my scholastic ilk: with the exception of Albus, who has been a creature of constant change as long as I have known him, we are all fond of our rules and established order. Armando Dippet was more enamored with it than anyone I had known or have known since, so, even if someone had raised concerns, they would have gone nowhere.)  
  
That first session for the class of 1945 was not wildly different than a fifth year class at the height of Quidditch season. Where most of the difference lay was in the limited number of spells available to my students—two Gryffindor girls and one of my own had already learned to shoot sparks, and Lestrange (who I believe had been illegally trained by his parents before coming to school) had an imprecise notion of performing a simple Levitation Charm.

What occurred has become something of a myth amongst my students, due to my own ceaseless repetition of it to my first-year classes. It is no longer just one of Slughorn’s stories; it is a legend, a cautionary tale of what can happen if you do not play nicely with your classmates. I have, until now, left out the most important part. This was, of course, Tom’s involvement.  
  
We began the class pleasantly enough. My Gryffindors sat on one side of the dungeon, casting scornful looks at the other side, from which my Slytherins, save Tom, sent haughty, sarcastic stares straight back. Tom sat at the front of the class with Nott, the first boy he had fascinated into friendship, if it could be called that. The specific elements of their appearances were undeniably analogous—dark hair, dark eyes, fair skin, slim frames that had abandoned the childishness of their fellows before childhood was over—but the total effect was far different. On Nott, these minutiae assembled themselves awkwardly, and I daresay that this only grew worse as he progressed into his adolescence. On Tom, they crafted that meticulous, superlative beauty that outlasts the majority of my memories.  
  
My standard introduction for first-years is typical, but time-honored and true: Hello, class, my name is Professor Slughorn, here are my credentials, here is what I have to teach you, here is what we will be learning in these next few months, here is what I expect from you in my class, and do you have any questions for me? We successfully made it to the syllabus for the term before any mishaps occurred, but, when they did, they were wretched. Lestrange—easily the wealthiest member of the class and, as a consequence, the one with the largest ego and deepest hatred of the supposed “impurities” coming into wizarding blood—interrupted to inquire as to the presence of Muggleborn students in the class.

Specifically, he made reference to the youngest of the Gryffindor girls (a pretty little thing with beautiful blonde curls; her name escapes me in my senility, but her curls stay with me; they were angelic) and to Tom, who was Halfblooded, but Lestrange did not know that, nor do I think he would have cared had he known. A proper testament to his lineage, as his sons would be when they, too, haunted my classroom with their red hair and snobbery, Lestrange cared only that Tom had won over the other boys when Lestrange thought  _he_  was entitled to their loyalty, and with a seeming lack of effort.

In retaliation, while I stood stupefied that any eleven-year-old would have the audacity to begin the next seven years of his life by  _making_  people despise him, one of the Gryffindor boys shouted at Lestrange, saying things that I can no longer conjure up. I remembered them exactly once, but I have since fictionalized them too many different times to know the particularities of the insults. As you can expect, Lestrange did not take this ecstatically, returning with his own string of sneering derisions.

Things escalated from thence until everyone but Tom and Nott was either screaming or attempting to fling sparks from their wands. The way Nott looked at Tom was as though he would not have been surprised had Tom joined in the fray with the Unforgivable Curses. His childish eyes were wide, his pale skin completely white, and he remained transfixed on the calm dispassion that Tom exuded.  
  
As innocent as ever, Tom looked up at me and spoke again, significance in his very syllables—such was his charisma, so great and graceful that it was impossible to think of anything he said as immaterial, impossible to marginalize him. Though he spoke quietly, I could hear him perfectly over the din of the minor war behind him and Nott’s terrified squeaks.  
  
“I don’t have any questions, sir,” he said softly, “at least about the curriculum. And I’ve been reading the book in my free time, so I know a bit about the subject, but… could you go over the basics, please? I want everything to make sense.”  
  
How could I deny that? Even were it not for my position, it would have been a feat of unimaginable difficulty. I have no doubt that only Albus could have opposed such a request, and only if it were plumbing into depths of knowledge that Tom had no place asking after. It took me a moment to collect myself enough to perform the task at hand, but in our remaining time, I covered the basics with Tom and Nott, allowing their classmates to rage and carry on in their belligerent hysterics.

To this day, it escapes me how, exactly, Nott and I ignored the noise, and so I must chalk up the credit to theoretical territory and attribute that success to Tom. No doubt exists in my mind that it was his allure keeping our minds on potion making and not the hostilities.  
  
I quizzed my students on the material the next week; the only passing grades were from Tom, Nott, and a Gryffindor boy whose bravery came out in standing up to his friends and reading the book instead of plotting against my darling Slytherins. Since it was a short and easy quiz, we graded them in class. My three who did not make complete fools of themselves were allowed to leave, while I kept the rest and went over the basics again.  
  
Do not think me an atrocious human being for this confession, but I will admit that I did practice favoritism with Tom. It was nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. Even Albus had his favorites then, as he does now with Harry Potter. No teacher is perfect about dealing with his or her students, nor has any ever been. Without a doubt, this is an unpopular fact, but the truth remains that it is as grounded in reality as numbers and the difference between a Christmas with crystallized pineapple and one without. I doted upon Tom Riddle, and I am not faint-hearted about admitting it.

I was not the only one, either. In fact, Albus was rather alone in  _not_  adoring the boy: He would readily concede that Tom was intelligent, talented, able, a quick study in every subject he touched, and a teacher’s dream in every other regard. Once, at Christmas and under the influence of my favorite elf-made wine, he admitted that Tom had an “engrossing personality”; but he never let this infringe upon his better judgment.  
  
That is what separates us, Albus and I, though I cannot say that I would rather go his route than my own.  
  
It was true what he said about Tom’s “engrossing personality,” and, as the boy got older, I found myself being increasingly drawn in by his bewitching and delectable lure. Most of my prizes were completely oblivious to the masterful technique with which I enticed and snared them into my office—but not Tom.

Rather, I enjoy entertaining the notion that he knew quite well what I was doing, even at the tender age of eleven. When, after his first Halloween Feast, I feigned drunkenness and asked him to assist me in getting back to the dungeons, I am quite certain that I saw the thrill of victory gleaming in his knowing eyes.

When, at Christmas-time, I had him in my office for an “innocent chat,” I saw the way he smiled at everything from the invitation to the pineapple; from the hand on his back that welcomed him into the office to the way I held his hands when he confessed to me his regrettable upbringing. I knew then more than ever that we both wanted this. I, being a selfish old aesthete, wanted the company of a beautiful, brilliant boy, and he wanted someone to take the place of his dead mother and unknown father.  
  
Never let it be said that I do not do my best to please those who please me.  
  
Over the next few years, I built him up, earned his trust little by little. If he asked for something, I gave it with little fuss. To divert suspicions from my intentions, I was always sure to raise some sort of complaint—“Now, now, Tom, I can’t go giving you an unfair advantage by letting you check out that book from the Restricted Section” and other mendacities of that nature—but we both knew, Tom and I, that I would always crumble before his requests. He told no one of the way I brushed my foot up his ankle while handing back papers and, in exchange, I did what he asked of me. I even signed the form for him to go into Hogsmeade during his third year.

Naturally, Albus thought that this was too much, that Tom should have asked the woman in charge of the orphanage he was obligated by circumstances to call home, but Armando sympathized with the boy when I put my ingenious spin on what happened.  
  
“You raise good points, Albus,” I sighed. “But think about Tom’s situation for a moment, won’t you?”

“I have given his situation a great deal of thought, Horace, and I do not think—”

“We have heard your take on the matter, Albus,” Armando interjected in his slow, even calm. “Now, let Horace speak his piece.”

“Thank you, Headmaster. As I was saying, think about his situation, and that poor woman’s. She has several children to attend to, all of them younger than Tom, and, I believe, he never had the chance to ask her. Besides, it is not as though we cannot trust him in the village—look at his record! Top of his class, everyone speaks well of him, and he has never once had a detention in the past two years. As his Head of House, I see no problem with allowing him to go into Hogsmeade. The only problem I see here is that my word is not good enough when, of the three of us, I know Tom the best.”  
  
Much to Albus’ chagrin, Armando was swayed by my admittedly maudlin logic. Although it was not apparent to me at the time, this argument in Tom’s favor was something of a final test of my loyalty and expediency to him. Would I willingly go against the established rules and order for him, or would I prove to be possessed of a feeble will and leave him behind? Furthermore, if I selected the first option, would I succeed in my purpose, or would I fail miserably and, instead, add more disappointments on to his already extensive list? I went into Armando’s office with only the knowledge that I could not let Tom down, for both our sakes.

From my end of the arrangement, this was the final step necessary to make him trust me completely and, in all my years spent working with children, I can say that nothing is more important to facilitating all your encounters with them than complete trust. When I brought the signed and confirmed permission form to Tom and saw his eyes glint, saw him smile with what seemed like honesty, I knew that I had earned his confidence, and that I could proceed in my ambitions.  
  
However, do not think I rushed into things, heavens no. Charging headlong into the fray with little regard for external conditions might work for valiant knights in tales of yore, but, if you pay close attention to these tales, it is always those romantic champions who find themselves betrayed and killed in the worst fashions.

With a comforting frequency, these stories always have mentor figures and prodigies, who are minor characters when compared with the magnanimous warriors, their captivating ladies, and the ever-present priceless comrade in arms, but outlive them nonetheless. Tom was one of those portents, flourishing and displaying an extraordinary skill not only in my classes, but in  _every_  class. He did not waste his time with Divination—I cannot say that I blame him; the subject has a long, rich history, but it is far too imprecise and speculative for men and women of true ambition—but he went the same route in his electives as in his core classes. Such talent cannot be impetuously hastened towards its climax; it must be coaxed there and guided, shown the way but allowed to develop.  
  
Although Tom hardly stopped his development as a wizard after our time together was finished, the effects I desired from our rapport reached full fruition in the middle of his fourth year, just after Christmas. It is a platitude, but a true one, that nothing can exactly compare to the first time. This is not to imply that every encounter after our first time together was anything but lovely, for, if I may be frank, none of my encounters with Tom were disappointments. The first of them, though, was rapturous. If there is some power or consciousness above magic and human intellect, then it beamed golden upon that night.  
  
In those days as in these, it was rare for a student to willingly stay in the castle over the Christmas holidays. That particular year, Tom was the only one to do so. A Hufflepuff fifth-year stayed behind so her parents could have some time alone, a Ravenclaw second-year was rather abandoned there (in all fairness, his parents had not meant to leave him, but Albus has ever been the exponent and champion of “all that is good and right,” and of course, he’s unspeakably charismatic, which accounted for many of his supporters in his war against Grindelwald, whose numbers counted this boy’s parents), but Tom remained, the only Slytherin there save me, simply because he didn’t want to go home. I neither blamed him then nor complained about it, and I regret nothing about what happened.  
  
The Yuletide feast was, as usual, exquisite, and had a lovely, intimate atmosphere. Even with the small number of people (there were all of eight of us), no one noticed as I held my hand on Tom’s knee under the table. If anyone saw us leave together, bound for my office and a glass of sherry, no one said anything. But I didn’t have him that night, not even so much as a kiss. We exchanged our usual pleasantries, the typical discourse of voices, eyes, and my hand on his knee, cheek, and shoulder, and then I sent him to bed warmed up. It was somewhat sadistic of me, I admit, but in three days’ time, it accomplished for me what I set out to do.  
  
He came to me in the middle of that evening, after having avoided me all day. I still cannot explain how he achieved such a feat, especially without an Invisibility Cloak at his disposal, but I did not argue at the time. When I let him into my office, he had such a cheerless, pitiful look that I asked no questions regarding why it was there; I only assumed in my hubris that it was because he missed me and that I could repair it, making him, at the very least, have his usual, glinting smirk.

Admittedly, I laid my normal charm on thick that night. I held his shoulder as I welcomed him in; I snuffed out some of my candles to create a more intimate atmosphere; I placed our chairs closer together than normal and had a hand on his knee for most of our conversation; and, when I poured his drink (brandy that night; vintage, and absolutely perfect for when you want to give the object of your affections the very best), I gave him more than I ordinarily would have. Being an intelligent, circumspect lad, he noticed this and played along, lowering his voice when he spoke up.  
  
“Sorry to bother you, professor,” he began softly, creating waves over the brandy’s surface as he spoke, “but I was talking to Professor Dippet earlier, and…”

“And, Tom? Come on, now. You know better than to keep me waiting for a good story.”  
  
I smirked to myself as he paused. As the poetic spider to the fly, I had welcomed him into my parlor, and he had come in of his own volition. I laughed at my jest; he did not. Though he chuckled slightly and took a sip of the brandy, his so-called mirth was tinted with bitterness; he was in no mood to laugh tonight. He did, however, allow me to put my hand on his knee—it was a common enough occurrence between us, but I must admit that I did hold on tighter than was normal.  
  
“Well, sir, he… he asked about my plans for the future, after I get out of school…”

“And you told him what…?”

“Well… he was surprised when I said I didn’t know yet…”

“And rightfully so, my boy! If I may be so  _bold_ , Tom, you’re rather  _famous_  for knowing what you want and getting it. When I think about yours and Lestrange’s little competition in September for that Ravenclaw girl, what was her name again-”

“Stevenson,” he hissed. “And she’s not important right now—”

“Don’t be so  _cold_ , Tom; I was merely making a point, you know. It was only natural that she chose you, of course, but, whatever happened with you two, it’s hardly deserving of that.”  
  
Taking a quick, purposeful sip of the brandy, he slid closer to me, though he remained quite firmly lodged on his chair. Any rash, uninformed witch or wizard would surely think that he had to have Veela in his blood to work such a spell, but I assure you: the spell he weaved was all his own, not a consequence of blood or trickery. I hesitate to even call it a spell; it was far too delicate, even for the precise, if often unpredictable, workings of magic. The twinkle in his eyes, even when he looked away; the way he turned his head  _just so_ , letting the candlelight play off his pale skin in the most beguiling way; the slip as he slid his knee forward, and how he didn’t seem to notice that he was coaxing my hand onto his thigh… this was all his own magic, taught by instinct and perfected with no instruction.

Considering it all, I refuse to believe that he did not have any inclinations as to my scheme. He clearly counter-schemed! Anyone with half an ounce of intellect could reflect upon these details for a minute or less and reach the same conclusions as I have.  
  
“I’m not trying to be cold, professor… and nothing happened.”

“Exactly my point! You knew what you wanted then and I certainly don’t know what your motives were, but you achieved them.”

“Temporarily, yes.”

“So why the uncertainty now, Tom? If I may be so nosy as to inquire, of course.”

“Sir, the future’s so much more important than petty things like girls-”

“You’ll hear no dispute from me on that-”

“I have an idea for something more immediate, though…”

“And what’s that, Tom?”  
  
With an almost grim finality, the sort that wizards of old would use before dueling for their one true love, he downed the last of his brandy. And, in what seemed to me as one liquid motion, he slithered from his chair onto my knee and snaked his free hand up around my neck to keep himself up. Even planted on my thigh, with his legs draped across my own, the boy was surprisingly light. Mind you, he had never been some oaf like Lestrange—who was, despite what he claimed after he grew into himself in the summer before his and Tom’s fourth year, a rather large, ill-coordinated lad—but I was still too taken aback by this revelation to fully enjoy how he gingerly rubbed his calves against my own.

When I did take note of that stimulation, though, I inhaled sharply, all pretenses failing me for the first time that I could remember. My heart pounded in my chest, and my mind had long since left.  
  
His breath preceded him as he leaned down to my ear—hot, slow, and thick with unspoken words. His gentleness was serpentine and entwining, and I couldn’t think of how I’d done without before.  
  
“I don’t know how Professor Dippet picks the prefects,” he whispered like a spoonful of honey in the first tea of a winter morning. “But, that aside, I’d love to be one of them next year…”  
  
The smallest things about his appearance were suddenly ostentatious. The sleep his eyes said he’d missed gave him a primal,  _wanting_  look. They seemed to almost glow red, reflecting the candlelight in their familiar way. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, allowing me a tantalizing glimpse at everything beneath: the delicate nook below his neck; his collarbone, admittedly pointy; and the white skin that led to nowhere (tinted only with light blue rivulets and islands of pink). How I so terribly wanted to follow it, to be its blindest disciple! The gap between his open lips was small, but it was just wide enough to be perfect. He exhaled slowly again, pushing his fingers lightly into my spine.  
  
“And it would help me so very much… with whatever I want to do with my life…”  
  
He shifted his oral focus now, and, in one slow, calculated exhalation, swept across from my ear, across my cheek, to my own lips, which, I must confess, were hanging limply, not entirely unlike a fish’s. Expectation was there, but I would have been satisfied just to have his breath mingling so with mine.  
  
“You could get that for me, couldn’t you? Put in a good word with the headmaster, and only for me?”

“I… I… I…”

“I am your favorite, aren’t I?”  
  
I am sure he has never spoken of this, so there are no vicious, gadfly rumors for me to contradict, but I cannot insist enough that Tom unequivocally kissed me first. I know full well that, given who I am, and given my previous and further conduct with a select few of my students, this will be impossible for anyone reading my narrative to believe—but it is the truth.

Further impossible to believe, in my none too humble but highly informed opinion, would be that I was his first kiss. Even I don’t believe that. He never said whether I was or was not, but the slow, venomous way he wrapped his lips around mine and dragged them back betrayed his silence on the matter. I can only say that Stevenson, the Ravenclaw girl, or whomever Tom had kissed before me, was unspeakably blessed. He tasted sweeter than his words, and my affected class was easily forgotten.  
  
We encountered each other in a similar manner in the two years between that incident and the next monumental one.  
  
It was a lovely midwinter night, and I had my little collection of boys assembled in my office for a bit of fun—well-mannered frivolity, if you will. They had their requests to make, and I had mine—Lestrange and Avery (one year above Tom and Lestrange), for example, had essays overdue to me—but it was Tom’s request that would direct the night. Horcruxes were, and still are, a banned subject—with good reason, I’m sure you’ll agree—but how was I to suspect what could come of a seemingly harmless discussion with my favorite student? Several wizards of his quality were interested in the Dark Arts, and wizard-kind has reaped unbelievable benefits from their dabblings. The Patronus Charm, for example, would fain have been invented had its creator not spent the time he did with Dementors.

Besides, I could hardly reach assumptions about what Tom would do with the knowledge. You might say that I’m a horrible judge of character for it; how could I not have seen what would become of a boy asking about Horcruxes?  
  
I’ll admit: he had me blinded. When he assured me, I couldn’t help but believe him.  
  
“Of course, this is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing here, isn’t it?” I asked. “All academic…”

I’ll admit I was more than a little unsettled, but he assured me, “Yes, sir, of course.”

“But all the same, Tom… keep it quiet, what I’ve told—that’s to say, what we’ve discussed. People wouldn’t like to think we’ve been chatting about Horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know… Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it…”

“I won’t say a word, sir.”  
  
In an instant, it seemed, he had the top buttons of his shirt undone and was in my lap, undoing the rest. His upper vestments found the floor soon enough, though he left his trousers for me to alleviate him of, and always at my leisure; he always was so enticing in the way he surrendered control but kept it all the same. With a serpentine grace and softness, he caressed my cheek, wrapped my moustache around one of his long, thin fingers. Each kiss was a slow, calculated thanks, and with each he removed some foreign poison to inject his own. I need hardly say that it worked, and he never told a soul, at least not to my knowledge.  
  
The last time we were together was jagged and abrupt. It ran down time in a methodical, stabbing motion that made no sense at all. In retrospect, I understand it more, but the jarring, sudden feeling of emptiness remains whenever I dwell on it.  
  
It was a Saturday night; he’d just finished his NEWTs the Friday before and, soon enough, he’d be gone, out into ‘the real world,’ if you can call it that. Indeed, magic makes our dealings so surreal that I wouldn’t use the term ‘real world’ for anything we touch, but that’s neither here nor there. (You see how hard it is for me to stay on topic here. I will not pretend to enjoy discussing these matters; I don’t. What became of Tom Riddle is, to me, one of this world’s most profound tragedies. True enough, he became great, he pushed magic to new boundaries, and he had power beyond the dreams of men—but he could have done so to benefit our kind more than wreak havoc upon it.)  
  
He welcomed himself into my office, though he hardly needed an invitation from me; he was always welcome wherever I could consider my domain. We wasted little time with preamble—how are you feeling, how did NEWTs go—before he had me on my armchair, that same armchair we’d visited so many times before. The buttons came undone; he gently fingered my moustache; the motions were so familiar, and yet so new, exciting as always, and impossible to deny. At least on my part they were.  
  
As was our custom, I came to kiss him first. He allowed me one, to soften the blow, but when I came back from a breath, I kissed his fingers instead. I looked to his eyes, confused. I’d seen him give people hard looks before; it was one of his oldest tricks—but he’d never given… I’d never even thought that he could give it to me. With a malicious gentleness, he pushed me back.  
  
“ _Never_  meet me like this again,” he hissed, voice so cold and hard; so unlike the voice I knew. “Do  _not_  contact me after I leave; if I need you,  _I_ will find you. And do not run around telling people that we’re acquainted.”  
  
“Acquainted.” My relationships with my students have been called many things—by them, by me, by half-informed spectators—but that was the first (and has remained the only) time they were called “acquaintances.”  
  
I let him go. There was no other option. When Tom Marvolo Riddle said something was so, it was so; only Albus had opposed him on this, and he was frequently brought down by Tom’s sway over others. It was just a shame at first, that he wound up working in Borgin and Burke’s—it was worse when he returned, some years later, to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts job.  
  
It was winter, absolutely freezing outside—I could feel it in my office, which, I can assure you, wanted not for any heat. He’d come to see Albus, I assume, shortly before I arrived to do the same. I was on my way up from dinner and meant to have a professorial chat about one of my Hufflepuff students who had fallen dreadfully behind. (She was an exquisite delight, quite gifted, and hardly impaired with potions. Naturally, as her professor, I was most concerned at this abrupt shift in her performance in my class.)

Tom and I paused as we passed each other on the stairs. It had been ten years, of course, but the change in him should not have been so significant. The beauty that I had so loved, the charm and grace that had so bewitched me, they were gone. Long gone, I had the sense, lost in whatever he had done to so mar his once-lovely features.

His presence, though, was more powerful, more commanding and it stemmed, or so I think, from his eyes. As he looked down upon me and I looked up at him, his eyes flashed. He frowned so deeply and with such disgust—and I felt a piece of my soul break off and die with however many he’d destroyed by then.  
  
“ _Sir_ ,” he spat like acid—and, without any semblance of his usual elegance, shoved past me and barreled down the stairs.  
  
…What became of him was a tragedy; I cannot stress that strongly enough. But, you must understand: none of it had anything to do with me. None of what happened to him, none of what he’s done since leaving Hogwarts… I had no hand in it. None.

**Author's Note:**

>  **16th June, 2019:** Ah, this fic. Without question, it is the fic of mine with which I have the most complicated relationship. I wrote this during my senior year of high school, during which I was going through A Lot Of Shit.
> 
> Said shit included, but was not limited to: running myself ragged about trying to get into college; trying to squeeze in whatever fun I could with my friends, most of whom had already graduated or went to different schools; being hopelessly in love with a girl who didn’t really love me back but in fairness, both of us were using each other in different ways and each of us did wrong by each other, and on my end, that one, “You can’t just put everyone else’s problems ahead of yours and call it love” idea from _The Perks of Being A Wallflower_ was very appropriate, because that’s what I did to her; having my mother run me even further into the ground for daring to have any fun at all in between my atrociously heavy workload, the SAT prep courses she shoved me into because my original scores had been _good_ but they hadn’t been _**Good Enough**_ ; dealing with an autistic spectrum diagnosis and trying to figure out what it meant for me; being punished by my mother for ever wanting that diagnosis;
> 
> being punished by my mother for talking to my therapist about the depressive downward spiral that all of this garbage fed into, much less trying to make anything about it better; only not failing three advanced lit classes because I turned in my NaNoWriMo project from that year, in which a caricature of my school’s literature department head commented on the action of the story as part of a Greek chorus of talking ferrets who lived in one of the main characters’ heads; trying to be everything to everyone, at all times; being pressured by a couple of my friends into reading _Lolita_ ; feeling like I had basically no adult support network left after my favorite teacher/faculty mentor had been arrested, extradited to Maryland at the end of the previous term, and finally tried for having sexually assaulted a student back in the 1970’s; feeling so much misdirected anger about his victim coming forward because of what it meant for me; and questioning everything I’d learned from him and everything about our relationship because of what had come out about his past.
> 
> —So, yeah. It wasn’t a very nice time in my life, and as seen here, it created a very not-nice fic.
> 
> In retrospect, I’d say that “coping” was definitely part of this fic, but it wasn’t all of it. There was also: anger at my former teacher, his victim, my mother, and the world; feelings of hurt and abandonment and, “This isn’t fair”; feelings of betrayal and wondering things like, “So, I feel like he changed because I knew him now, but did he really? If he didn’t, was any of his interest in me as a student genuine? Did he actually believe in me or was that a lie, too”; and more.
> 
> So, this fic was, in a lot of ways, me trying to make sense of all that, and trying to find some way to feel less lost and more like I understood what I was feeling, what I was going through, etc. It helped in its own fashion, but it was still a few years before I more fully got my head around any of this.
> 
> I originally planned for more installments here, but senior year was senior year, and then I lost a lot of the notes in a freak flash drive accident. I do remember that Sirius and Barty Crouch Jr. were going to be on the receiving ends of Slughorn’s “extra attention”—and I want to say that Sirius’s “flavor” was going to be something about heat or spice, while Barty had something related to either extreme sweetness or extreme bitterness but pretty much nothing else would’ve made sense to me, with how I wrote him at the time—but…… Alas? Here’s to all the fics that we don’t end up writing?
> 
> Anyway, here’s also hoping that finally posting this on AO3 will stop making me feel guilty and ashamed, like I’m trying to hide something that someone will eventually dredge up anyway, or whatever my horrible, anxiety-gremlin brain dreams up next.


End file.
